


Easy Morning

by the_pen_is_mightier



Series: waking up to you [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, They love each other, Waking Up, making breakfast, morning fic, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-04 00:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21188894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/pseuds/the_pen_is_mightier
Summary: Aziraphale wakes to Crowley making breakfast.





	Easy Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt I was given on Tumblr from a prompt list: "25. Wrapping arms around them when they make breakfast"

The world feels slow and easy when Aziraphale wakes. Sheets are draped over him, keeping him locked in warmth, but a small, gentle breeze blows across his cheeks, slightly damp with sweat like morning dew. He doesn’t want to move, for a long moment. 

“Crowley?” he murmurs.

No response. Aziraphale turns over to look at Crowley, but he isn’t lying next to him. Isn’t where he was when Aziraphale fell asleep last night.

Aziraphale frowns. What time is it? Why would Crowley be up before him? Reluctantly he shuffles up into a sitting position - and when he moves to shove the sheets off him, he smells the aroma of bacon wafting in from the kitchen.

_Oh_. He smiles. 

Aziraphale’s slippered feet pad from the dim room, down the hallway of his flat and into the kitchen. Sure enough, Crowley’s at the stove, still clad in black silk pajamas and with his red hair sticking up in all directions like a nest of downy feathers. Two plates sit on the counter, already piled with scrambled eggs and pieces of toast.

“Good morning,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley turns his head, hands still busy, and smiles as his eyes fall on Aziraphale. It’s a slow, easy smile. “Morning, angel.” 

Aziraphale is struck, more than anything else, by how _normal_ it is; how unremarkable, how trite, even, the head-turn and the smile and the greeting feels. As if they’ve woken up this way for thousands of years. As if they haven’t spent almost all eternity on opposite sides of a universe-splitting war, as if Aziraphale hasn’t spent his life in terror that one day they’re going to have to kill each other.

He moves forward, now, and wraps his arms around Crowley from behind. Crowley leans back into the hug, relaxing against it; a little exercise in trust, relying on Aziraphale to keep him upright. Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s cheek.

“It _is_ a good morning,” he says.

“Oh, yes?” Crowley resumes tending the bacon, content to have Aziraphale’s arms remain around him. 

“Every morning with you is a good one.” 

Crowley’s laughter echoes through both of them, here as they are, pressed together; Aziraphale lets it shake his chest, his stomach, for a moment before he laughs too. It wasn’t a joke - he meant it - but Crowley’s laughter is such a beautiful sound that Aziraphale can’t protest to anything that lets him hear it. 

“Why the breakfast?” Aziraphale asks. “You don’t usually eat.”

“Thought I’d try it out.” Crowley works to flip the piece of bacon on the end. “You always enjoy it so much. And I wanted to surprise you.” 

Aziraphale shuts his eyes and smiles again. _I wanted to surprise you,_ says the six-thousand-year-old demon who tempted Eve and Jesus, and so he decides to make bacon and eggs. Those are the types of surprises their life consists of, now that Armageddon is over, now that they aren’t working for Hell and Heaven, now that there’s no Great War to be fought in the name of God. These are the kinds of dull, unimportant moments Aziraphale can expect from every day. 

It’s such a sweet thing to finally know. 

“Crowley,” he says, soft and quiet, against Crowley’s ear. “I love you dearly, you know.” 

“I know.” Crowley says it calmly, without doubt or hesitation. 

“I love you more than every ray of Heaven’s light.”

“I know.” 

He thinks about going on. He could - _I love you more than every fruit in Eden, more than every leaf on the tree of Life, more than the gold and jewels and statues of the world’s most magnificent cathedrals_ \- but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say he would walk through Hell for Crowley a million more times. He doesn’t say that he would give up everything for him.

He doesn’t need to, because they aren’t in danger now. They’re safe, and they’re free, and Crowley doesn’t want anything from him but himself. Crowley doesn’t demand anything but Aziraphale’s arms around him. 

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley and releases him. “I’m glad you know.” 

Crowley turns off the stove and moves the bacon onto their plates. He’s not particularly graceful with it, but Aziraphale can’t think of a time Crowley has been graceful with anything - he’s careful, at least, not to drop the plates as he takes them to the table. Aziraphale is eager to be seated. Now that he’s properly awake, he’s famished. 

“Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale looks up, absentminded. “Hm?”

Crowley’s fingers brush his cheek, and it’s common, and it’s ordinary, and it’s glorious. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Like my content? Find me on Tumblr @[whatawriterwields](https://whatawriterwields.tumblr.com)!


End file.
